Dear Corporation (For Precarious College Town Halloweens),
On nights like this, I believe that, on one human shoulder sits war and terror and poverty, and on the other, balancing precariously in a ketchup bottle costume with scissor-shredded stockings and stilettos, is Halloween weekend in a college town. If you are out on the streets this weekend pretending to be something other than yourself (it’s ok, we all need that), or, perhaps, strategically revealing your true self for the first time, please be safe, try to stick to one kind of alcohol, smile politely at police officers and their skittery horses (if applicable and you are bubblingly drunk, feel free to ask (again, politely) for a photo with said officer and said skittery horse). Avoid the rolling blackouts of aggressive drunks, the roving fogs of pepper spray and raving bands of terrible music and terrible love. Avoid shattered glass and men dressed as The Joker from 2008 (though hug anyone dressed as Jack Nicholson's 1989 version of same, especially if said person is wearing purple velvet and carrying a replica of that revolver with its hysterically long barrel that shot down The Batwing (see attached photo)). If you need me, I'll be at home with my love, listening to Jens Lekman's "When I Said I Wanted To Be Your Dog" and The Mountain Goat's "Transcendental Youth" on the record player, sipping incandescent cocktails made with gin and mint and citrus, reading Lauren Groff's "Arcadia" and working on Adam Fell's Untitled Young Adult Zombie Apocalypse novel. Please, do not hesitate to call us if you need a ride or a washcloth or a space heater or blanket or band-aids and disinfectant or a bowl of homemade chicken soup with avocado and a little dollop of sour cream, or if you need to be talked down or talked awake or to be listened to sincerely as you sob about some son of a bitch, as you unload about the world’s unloading the world upon your shoulders. Please. We love you. Be safe. You are the loveliest of splitfoot demons clopping sparks up from the pavement of our hearts.